Russian Roulette
by IceEckos12
Summary: "Ah, America. Would you like to play a game?" Russia and America get involved in a dangerous game. England had no clue. Dark humor, blood.


**No way do I own Hetalia!**

He remembered everything.

He remembered his heavy, weary footsteps as he trudged down the dark hall, which was ridiculously high. Though he couldn't help smirking, because, well, _he __couldn't walk down the hallway if the ceiling was too low, now could he?_

He remembered the soft light that peeked out from underneath the doorway, the way it made dancing patterns on the floor. The door—that damn door— was connected to the wall, and it was so much narrower than he would have expected. He remembered fingering the brass knob, scratched and worn with age. He shot the handle once in a fit of anger long after the first encounter, but that was another story.

He remembered opening the door, feeling nothing and knowing exactly who was behind that door. He remembered facing the person, feeling like he should redirect his eyes, or close them, or at least rest before he faced the psychopath. His pride forced his eyes up, open, alert.

A cocky smile. A well placed mask.

The figure was staring out the window, or maybe he was just facing it and closing his eyes, he wasn't sure. He remembered watching the reflection that appeared in the glass, not quite showing the figure's details.

The figure turned around, a soft, amused smile gracing his pale lips. He closed his violet eyes for a second before looking at him. "Ah, America. Would you like to play a game?"

America remembered his cocky smile fading a smidge before returning in full force. "Sure, why not? There's no _way _I can lose!"

And so began the tradition.

* * *

America faced Russia, a smile twitching his otherwise still features.

"201 to 201, commie. Who's going to win this time?"

Russia smiled, his face twisting malevolently. "It is obvious, is it not?"

Of course, they had been through many more than that, but they had to choose _some_ number to make it simple—both had by now forgotten what that number really was.

America loved that smile. The other countries never understood—he had to be just a little more careful, because they were fragile. That malicious, unafraid smile showed him that Russia was tough and could take more than a few bullets to the head. Why else would he play this game every year?

Russia plucked the revolver from his pocket, all the slots for bullets empty. All but one. He eyed America casually before spinning the barrel quickly, using his enormous strength.

He pushed the gun to his forehead, smiling innocently. Then he pulled the trigger.

_Click._

America sighed, pursing his lips in mock disappointment. "Aw…"

Russia used his creepy smile, the one that made most countries run. America—he reveled in it. This is what he lived for every year. It was a competition where no one had to hold back.

America reached for the gun and twisted the barrel, eyes never leaving Russia. His bright blue gaze bore into Russia, and the violet gaze pushed back equally as hard.

He put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

_Click. _

Russia mimicked America's sigh as the latter country smoothly slid the gun across the table, grinning. "Your turn."

This went on for what seemed like hours, though the countries knew it was only five minutes or so. Each country took their turn, absolutely ecstatic. They loved the danger, the risk, everything.

It happened on Russia's turn.

_Bang!_

Russia let out a gasp, eyes widening slightly as blood began to trickle down his forehead. Stunned, he placed his hand on the wound and let out a soft sigh. "Damn."

America had jumped at first, but now he grinned triumphantly. "I win!"

Russia shoved the gun into America's hands. "Again." He growled, angry that he'd lost.

America smirked, adding another bullet and spinning the barrel before shooting.

Russia smiled softly, licking some of the blood from the corner of his mouth. "My win." He said.

"Unfair!" America cried, pulling out a small towel and dabbing the wound. "I didn't spin it correctly!"

Russia smirked. "Kolkolkol. Looked nicely spun to me."

This went on for hours, small arguments breaking out from time to time, blood staining their clothing and marring their sadistic grins; their triumphant yells.

The last thing they expected was for England to walk in.

"Bloody hell—." came the cry. America had the gun pressed to a fresh patch of skin, Russia was staring at him expectantly.

They turned simultaneously, both blinking in surprise at the shocked and horrified Englishman.

"What are you _doing?" _England screamed, dropping the grocery bag filled with tea and whiskey—probably his sustenance for the upcoming meeting he was supposed to have with Russia today. Oops. Damn.

America and Russia looked at each other, obviously at a loss at what to do. Just then, America's finger slipped. The gun went off, splattering fresh blood on the side of his head.

England let out a muffled squeak.

"Well." America said finally. "We're playing Russian Roulette." He looked at Russia.

"Ah, yes. Um…"

England stormed over to America, watching as he guiltily licked some of the blood off his lips.

"How long has this been going on?" England shrieked, turning red.

America took another look at Russia. "A little over 100 years, I guess…"

England sat down hard. "_What?"_

Russia, ever polite, offered England the gun. "Would you like to play?"

England looked at the revolver as though it were a nasty disease.

"No—no, no , no, I need to get you two to the hospital, and then you are never going _near _America ever again, you probably forced him into this, you bloody wanker, I'm going to curse you for all of damn eternity—"

"Iggy." England turned to the voice out of habit, his rant dying down. "It's tradition. He didn't force me into anything. He asked me if I wanted to play, so I did. Do you want to try? Just this once?"

England looked at them both, eyes wide with hopelessness. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he picked up the gun, and said in a small, shaky, voice, "Why not?"

**I have no idea what compelled me to write this story. I was listening to Russian Roulette, and this just happened to come to my mind. Maybe I am really insane. **

**Anyway, Russian roulette was a game invented by—who else—the Russians. It's a game where you empty all the bullets from a revolver except one, spin the barrel, point the gun at your head and pull the trigger. Anyway, you have a 1/6 chance of getting yourself shot, and if you don't re-spin the barrel, the next person has a 1/5 chance, then the next person has a ¼ chance, and so on and so forth. However, if you keep spinning the barrel after each turn, then each person always has a 1/6 chance of getting shot. Delightful, isn't it? **

**I think whoever plays this game is a real idiot, but maybe the world is better without them. **

**Besides that, in this story, Russia and America have been playing the Russian roulette game once every year, a very messed up and psychotic tradition. They have gone undiscovered, though their doctors have been going crazy with worry…and ignorance. They've never really expected England to join their game, but he has now, quite by accident. Now, every year, the three gather and play their weird little game. They don't ask themselves why they do it, but they wouldn't have it any other way. **


End file.
